


don't worry me (or hurry me)

by leo_minor



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Cuddling, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sharing a Bed, just bros being bros....romantically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:35:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23533918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leo_minor/pseuds/leo_minor
Summary: Hershel sticks his head out of the window and into the night air. A quick glace down is enough to confirm his suspicions.“Most people would use the front door, you know ?”“Hersh,” Randall grins through chattering teeth, “you should know I’m not most people !”
Relationships: Randall Ascot & Hershel Layton, Randall Ascot/Hershel Layton
Comments: 10
Kudos: 50





	don't worry me (or hurry me)

_“Rudwick claimed you were ‘mad as a hatter,’” Fraser mused. “Seems you took that remark very ill.”_

_Mallory flushed. “He had no right to say that, with his gentry airs –“_

_“You were enemies.”_

_“Yes, but –“ Mallory wiped his forehead. “You can’t believe I had anything to do with this !”_

_“Not by your own intention, I am sure,” Fraser said. “But I believe you’re a Sussex man, sir ? Town called Lewes ?”_

_“Yes ?”_

_“Seems that some scores of these pictures have been mailed from the Lewes postal office.”_

_Mallory was stunned. “Scores of them ?”_

_“Mailed far and wide to your Royal Society colleagues, sir. Anonym– ”_

Hershel’s head snaps up.

His eyes temporarily leave the book to squint at his window, from which a resounding ‘hmph !’ has just risen. He waits a few seconds for the sound to repeat itself, but only the hushed swirl of the autumn wind reaches him through the glass. His mind, he decides, is playing nightly tricks on him. With one last glance at the sky outside, he turns back to Doctor Mallory and Fraser, waiting patiently for him on the page.

_Mallory stared at the morgue picture. Suddenly the simple human pity of the sight struck him, with terrible force._ “ _Poor damned Rudwick ! Look what they’ve done to him !”_

_Fraser watched him politely._

_“He was one of us !” Mallory blurted, stung into angry sincerity. “He was no theorist, but a damned fine bone-digger. My God, think of his poor family !”_

Hershel’s got an active imagination. He doesn’t put it past himself to hear voices in the wind. But this time, it’s no sigh but a _knock_ , or rather three – three clear, rhythmic knocks against the glass. Fine ! He puts the book down on the floorboards and throws his legs over the bed. He’s been sitting down long enough for pins and needles to settle comfortably in both his legs, turning what he’s hoping would be quiet steps into awkward limping, but he makes it to the window in time to catch three more knocks.

Impatience is a terrible vice, he thinks, and tugs the handle upwards. Bent over his desk, he sticks his head out of the window and into the night air. With his arms comfortably crossed, fighting wild goosebumps, he says : “Most people would use the front door.”

“Hersh,” Randall grins through chattering teeth, “you should know I’m not most people !”

That is an indisputable fact. He’s hanging off the windowsill, arms propped up to the elbows against the glass, and looking jolly happy about it, too. When Hershel offers him a hand, he takes it gladly and hoists himself into the room. Their shared effort is rewarded – he collapses onto the carpet with an eloquent groan and decides to just lie there, chest heaving. Hershel steps over him and shuts the window.

“Out of sheer curiosity,” he says, once his panting dies away, “How difficult is it to climb up to my room ? Because scaling your wall was – and I’m being polite – bloody exhausting !”

“Believe it or not, it’s not _meant_ to be scaled,” Hershel snorts. “Especially not at quarter past one on a Tuesday.”

The young man on the floor rolls his eyes, smiling loosely at the jab. “Yes, well. Toss me a blanket, will you ?”

His mother’s left one, freshly ironed, on the chair he keeps by his bookshelf. He throws it over to his friend, who wraps it around his shoulders and gives a blissful sigh. “Better ?”

“Much. It’s freezing out there ! And it’s not even November yet.”

“Why didn’t you grab a coat ?”

Randall stops untying his shoelaces long enough to flash him a grin. “Ran straight out without thinking to. I just missed you so much that I couldn’t wait until tomorrow morning to see you !”

A frown worms its way onto Hershel’s face, barely masked by his mop of curls. He takes a moment to look at his friend, now reading the back of his disregarded book with mild interest. His face is flushed a bright red, the tip of his nose a startling pink. It’s not surprising, with the wind so harsh and the nights getting longer. But there’s just something off about him tonight.

“Bone-digging, eh ?” he picks out of the book, poking the page with an insistent finger. “Have I lured you into reading about archaeologists at last, Hersh ?”

“He’s a palaeontologist,” Hershel corrects automatically. It’s painfully clear he’s being led away from the subject at hand. He plucks the book out of Randall’s grasp and settles back on his bed, balancing it cautiously on one knee. Beneath the playfulness in his friend’s glare, he’s certain there’s some foreign unease. His eyes are still red at the edges. It’s a look he sees on him more often than he’d like to. “Hand me your glasses.”

“Huh ?”

“Your glasses – hand them over. It’s not like you need them.”

Randall gives him a funny look, but complies nonetheless. “Don’t smudge them.”

Hershel bunches up the hem of his t-shirt and runs it along the glass. He has the courtesy not to mention the very obvious tear tracks left on it and wipes them off first. Randall will talk about it when he feels ready. In the meantime, he cleans off the last of the smudges clinging to the edge of his glasses before pushing them back onto his friend’s nose.

“You know our front door’s always open for you, no matter the time, right ?”

“Isn’t one on a weeknight pushing it a little, though ?” His glasses, much like his smile, sit slightly crooked, and he takes a moment to steady them. “No – I know it is. I just didn’t want to be a… a bother.”

Hershel opens his mouth to protest, a little too vehemently perhaps for the late hour, but the words die in his throat. Randall’s shoulders are shaking. He’s dropped his head in a weak attempt to hide his predicament, but when his friend hops off the mattress to kneel by his side all pretence disappears, and he finds himself hugging his knees with trembling arms. When Hershel wraps a securing arm around him, he lets out the smallest of hiccups and leans against him. It’s worse than usual, and Hershel wonders if he’s been fighting the tears since he’s arrived.

“You’re not a bother _here,_ ” he tells him, and holds him tight when another sob shakes him. There’s something unnerving about it every time he sees Randall cry – perhaps because the occurrences are so rare, or perhaps because a frown is so unlike him. The young man sniffles loudly and pulls out of their hug to furiously wipe his runny nose, with little success, and gives a half-hearted mumble when offered a nearby tissue. “Your dad’s a prick.”

This comment manages to pull a wet chuckle out of him. The sound is reassuring like no other could be and washes away the feeling of powerlessness that had been pulling Hershel down; he tightens his grip on his friend enough to make the poor boy yelp. In his surprise he laughs again and blinks away the tears weighing under his eyelids.

“Now that’s been re-established,” Hershel puts in, “Fancy telling me why you climbed up my house ?”

“You’re making me sound like some burglar !”

“A burglar would have made less noise, wouldn’t he ?”

“How very insulting,” Randall says pointedly, and hides a smile behind his soggy tissue. “I’ll have you know I don’t have as much practice as you do ! At one point I genuinely thought I’d fall down and break something.”

Privately, Hershel wonders what’s left for him to break. He’s sprained practically every part of his body tripping off this or that set of rocks already ! It’s a wonder his bones can take any more. The thought clearly shows on his face, because his friend breaks free from his hold with an outraged cry and pulls himself onto the bed, sparing but a second to send Hershel’s pillow flying into his face.

Peering down at him from his perch, Randall catches the exact moment it falls into his friend’s lap, revealing two, dark murdering eyes. Hershel hurls the pillow right back at him, but he’s quicker, and lobs the abandoned book in his direction with expert aim. One object lands harmlessly on the mattress. The other hits Hershel’s forehead with a distinctive thud.

“Too slow, Hershel !”

The young man rubs the small crescent mark starting to form between his eyebrows. “I guess that was half deserved.”

“Half ? It was at least two thirds deserved !” Randall rubs the last of his snot off with his sleeve and crosses his legs. “You _did_ call me a prowler.”

With his shoes kicked off and his jacket discarded, he burrows under Hershel’s duvet and pats the spot besides him. He doesn’t need to be told twice; without bothering to retrieve the forlorn blanket left sitting on the floorboards, he climbs up next to him.

If this were a normal evening, if Randall had come in through the front door, if they’d shared a cup of tea and talked it out and shared the latest news, he’d already have his arms around Hershel by now. In fact, his total and absolute negation of personal space has become such a normal thing that watching him just sit there, shuffling his feet under the covers, is a little unnerving. The smile he’d been boasting is clinging for dear life to his face, but its demise is close. Every so often his eyebrows twitch, too softly for anyone to notice, but Hershel isn’t just anyone, either. For a moment they wait together in silence, and Hershel wonders : what the hell is going on ? No – perhaps worse : what the hell is going on _this time_?

And then Randall shifts up and drops his head into Hershel’s lap and the world is restored to its usual state.

“I know I’m loud,” he says, and there’s something thoughtful about the look in his eyes. An uncommon occurrence, Hershel might have joked. It would be such an easy tease. He runs a hand through his friend’s hair, and that feels easy, too. “I _know_ I’m loud. Sorry for climbing up your house, Hersh. I didn’t want to wake anyone up.”

He gives a nod – _that’s alright_. Randall looks a tense mess beneath him, eyebrows knitted tight together. Hershel’s fingers work softer at his locks, and he breathes out a soft sigh.

“I swear I was quiet. He’s always worse in the evenings, but I was careful ! Since last time I came in late, everything’s proved a good excuse to rip into me. But man, I barely made a creek – !” He runs a weary hand down his face. It’s bruised all the way down to the wrist. “I was home on time. I didn’t get in his way. What else does he expect me to do…? It’s like he’s waiting for me to trip up, and when I do, I’m the – the…”

His hand stops over his eyes and rests there, barely trembling.

“The family embarrassment all over again.”

Family, Hershel thinks. He thinks of his parents, and their encouraging words and their kind smiles, and the warmest of their hugs, the ones they kept for the bad days. He thinks of the Ascots, and finds himself frowning again. He takes Randall’s bruised hand and holds it.

“It’s my fault, this time – I just – the best course of action is always to bow my head and take it, and it stings for a while and then it flows away. But Jesus, Hersh, I couldn’t – I couldn’t listen to him spit at me again. If I don’t stand up for myself I might start _believing_ the shit he says, God, the absolute _shit_ he says ! But I shouldn’t have raised my voice.” His fingers spasm in Hershel’s hand. “He grabbed be like he wanted to snap my bones, and I swear he was gonna hit me halfway across the room, if Henry hadn’t come in. I just turned and ran. So yeah…” He smiles. “No coat.”

There’s a pause.

“…and then slash his tires.”

“What ?”

Hershel blinks. “Oh, nothing. Was I talking out loud ?”

“Yes, you were,” Randall grins despite himself.

“Well, forget all about it.”

“Mmh…” He tries to relax back, allowing his fingers to curl around his friend’s. There are tiny beads at the corners of his closed eyes, reflecting the lamplight, but he’s cried out most of his shock already. Lying in Hershel’s lap, he just looks tired. So, so very tired. “If it’s the doctor’s orders…”

“It is,” Hershel confirms. He hasn’t found the time to change out of his day clothes – he makes some now and pulls his tie undone. “The doctor also says you’re staying with your good friend Hershel for the night, because he’s not letting you go back over there after that.”

“Thank goodness ! I was ready to start begging !”

“Don’t thank _goodness_ – thank your good friend Hershel.”

“Thank you, my good friend Hershel,” he choruses, finally wearing a smile that reaches his eyes. “And I really mean it.”

“You’re welcome, of course.” He pauses, tilting his head slightly. “I wish you didn’t have to be here, Randall, but I’m glad you are.”

“So am I. They say home is where your heart is, don’t they ?”

Hershel nods, the implication flying way over his head. He’s still too busy frowning, but doesn’t quite realise how hard until Randall pokes his forehead right in its pressure point. His nose scrunches up in protest.

“What’s going on in that head of yours, Hersh ?” he inquires. “I just know it’s more than you let on !”

“Nothing in particular,” he answers truthfully. “Just thinking. If you don’t know what the word ‘father’ means, you shouldn’t be allowed to call yourself one.”

Randall sighs his agreement.

“I’ve told you a hundred times, but nothing he says is true. You know that, right ? Nothing – I’ve heard him yelling and it’s –“

“It’s fine. I’d rather just forget it, now.”

Yes, but –“ His voice is strained with frustration. Randall is toying with the curls at the nape of his neck. He has no idea how his hand even got there, but it’s very distracting. “What are you doing ?”

“Calming you,” comes his reply. His friend looks extremely amused by how worked up he’s getting. “You’re going red in the face !”

As for that, Hershel’s not sure anger’s the only cause.

“Well, you’re not getting pissed off, so I’m doing it for two. He tried to _hit_ you.” He thinks of his father, the round and merry old man; he tries to picture him hitting anything other than a nail with a hammer. The only product of his efforts is distress. “You deserve better than that.”

He’s not worried about Randall knowing. Randall knows. But he’s worried about him not hearing it, not hearing it often enough – not hearing it at all. The boy doesn’t offer much of a reaction, but his eyes soften just enough to fuel Hershel further.

“Me ‘n Henry, ‘n Angela of course, we all know you’ll succeed in whatever you do. Maybe we don’t tell you enough, because you’re –“

“Loud ?”

“Exuberant,” Hershel continues smoothly, ignoring Randall’s cackling. “We just assume you know, but it’s not the same to be told, right ? Nothing would be the same if you weren’t yourself.”

These words hit harder than the rest. Randall’s smile melts into a thin line. His next words are spoken so softly that he might have missed them completely, had he not leaned in. “Thank you, Hershel.”

“It’s…” He blinks, peering down into his friend’s face. “…just the truth.”

“Sure. But you’re right – it’s not the same to hear it from someone else.” His injured hand travels down his face again, and when it drops back into Hershel’s grasp, he’s grinning again. The guy must have a switch, or something. “When things are bad I start to wonder if I have my place around here. Thanks for reminding me I do !”

Hershel finds himself mirroring his expression, and says : “Of course you do. It’s with us !”

“That’s right !” Randall laughs, and in that moment Hershel has so much to say that he can’t put his thoughts in order at all. It’s the late hour, the lack of sleep he can already feel weighing him down, and maybe, just maybe, the sunny look on Randall’s face – he wants to tell him that he’s Stansbury’s light, that without him their friend group would never have spoken to each other, let alone formed, that he wouldn’t have lived half the adventures he remembers so fondly despite tripping on rocks, ending up face down in the mud, falling into this or that river, or dropping fossils on his foot. He wants to tell him, to counter every atrocity his father’s thrown his way over the years, but he figures out he doesn’t need to after all. Randall knows, and that’s why he’s entwined their fingers while Hershel was ruminating. He knows, and that’s why his hand is pressing gently down on his neck, lowering him closer, close enough for Hershel’s breath to leave steam marks on the edge of his glasses (just cleaned ! a tragedy !). “It’s right here.”

Randall’s hand has stilled. He’s no longer leading him down, leaving the final decision to him. They’re close enough to bump noses, and clumsy enough to, too. _Right here._ He looks at him with defying normalcy, like they’re standing in line for coffee or discussing their latest classes, and not inches apart from each other on Hershel’s bed. As usual, he has no idea what he’s thinking, but he can guess. _Hurry up_ _!_ Impatience is a terrible vice, he thinks, not for the first time, and realises he’s just as keen as he is.

He has a split second to send his apologies to Angela before he forgets all about her. It’s hard for him to think with Randall’s lips brushing against his own. He grips their joined hands, a weak effort to concentrate, but what’s the point when Randall’s hands are coursing through his hair like that ? He’s doing it on purpose, always one step ahead. A breezy laugh escapes him, unscripted, and vibrates pleasantly between them – he breaks the kiss to pepper Hershel with smaller ones between each chuckle. The action is so ridiculous that Hershel feels laughter rising to his own lips and ends up frankly snickering in his face, each peck he leaves on Randall’s mouth clumsier than the previous. The redhead’s running fast out of breath, and retrieves both his hands to rest against his ribs. His head lolls back into Hershel’s lap. His own laughter slowly dwindles, quietening to gentle rasps for air. If his face was red earlier on, it surely is flaring by now, but he can’t find it in him to be embarrassed. He leans back against the bed’s headboard and glances down at Randall; he’s staring right up at him, eyes only half open. His lips slowly part, and he says :

“...anyway, could I borrow a t-shirt ?”

Dearly me, at this late hour ?

The kettle starts to whistle. Lucille lets its switch flip before pulling it off its base, steam fogging her reading glasses right up. No noise has come from Hershel’s room for the past half hour or so, but she can’t with good conscience let them go to sleep without a good cup of tea. She isn’t sure how Randall got in, but the boy has his ways – she’s rather fond of him, and knows he likes two spoons of sugar and a dash of milk in his brew. She wishes he’d come visit more often on happier occasions, but the poor lad needs a place he feels safe, and she’s glad he’s found it here. He probably climbed in through the window, didn’t he ? She hopes he hasn’t bruised anything.

She sets his mug next to Hershel’s Earl Grey (with just a few drops of honey) on her little tray, and rips a packet of biscuits open. They fit in nicely in the leftover space. Untying the back of her apron with one neat pull, she hobbles up the stairs to her son’s door and leaves three quiet knocks on the wood.

“Hershel, dear ? Can I let myself in ?”

Her whisper arouses no reaction from behind the door. They’ve been awfully silent for a while now – perhaps they’ve just fallen asleep. But now the tea’s all poured and steaming, dumping it into the sink would be such a dreadful waste… She can just leave the tray by the side of the bed, just in case they wake up and need something soothing.

Balancing the tray on one hand, she pushes down on the door handle and pushes the door open with the tip of her slippers. The room basks in gentle lamplight. Roland would complain about wasting power if he were to know; she’d better switch it o–

“Oh, good evening, Mrs. Layton !”

“Randall !” she gasps. Her eyes adjust to the dim light enough for her to make out the boy’s apologetic face. “You startled me there – oh, you know it’s Lucille to you.”

He offers her a smile. “I’m very sorry, Lucille ! Did I wake you up ? I know the hour isn’t exactly proper –“ A pause. “Are those biscuits you have there ?”

She muffles a little laugh. It’s reassuring to hear the boy act like his usual self. As she comes closer, carrying her tray with both hands, she makes out more of the room. Randall’s settled comfortably against the wall, holding a battered book in one hand. It’s one of her son’s, one she’s had to pull out of the dust under the bed numerous times. The boy himself is fast asleep, head nested in the crook of Randall’s neck. The kid’s got an arm around him, she notices. She has to admit she isn’t entirely surprised.

“This one’s yours,” she says, nodding towards the grey mug. Randall puts his book down and scoops it up off the tray. “Careful – freshly poured and scalding !”

“Ooh, milky. Thank you !” They both look at the untouched mug, and at the sleeping boy in turn. “Ah – I think Hersh’ll be passing, tonight. He’s knocked right out.”

“Well, I’ll leave the biscuits here for you, shall I ?”

“Thank you,” he says again, and sets his mug back down. “I’m sorry for coming in without being invited. You don’t mind if I stay, do you ? I swear I won’t wake Hersh up.”

She’s halfway ready to laugh it off with him when she notices the tense smile on his face. Is he...? Yes, he is - he’s genuinely worried. Despite having slept over dozens of time, shuffled in on a cold day more than that, he’s anxious he’s being impolite. She shakes her head and swears to cook him the best breakfast he’s ever had when morning comes.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t need to ask, dear. You’re always welcome here.”

He nods his head, and when she offers him a hand he squeezes it gratefully. She nods back and picks up Hershel’s tea. To the kitchen with it, and to bed with her – it’s closer to morning than evening now. At the door she pauses to look at her sleeping son and his friend, snuggled together under the duvet. They share one last glance, and from the doorstep she smirks and calls out :

“You’d better take good care of my son, Mr Ascot, or you’ll have to deal with me !”

Whatever he replies is lost, swallowed by the creaking sound of the door closing. It doesn’t matter what it was. She knows he will. Those two always take care of each other. No one could do a better job.

Content with her visit, she heads back to her bedroom. And above her, on the second-floor bedroom, with Hershel tucked warmly under his arm, Randall keeps reading in the thinnest of whispers, until his breathing evens out and, head coming to rest atop of Hershel’s, he too falls asleep at last.

_Fraser made a note. “Family – must inquire into that…”_

**Author's Note:**

> The book Hershel was reading is The Difference Engine by William Gibson and Bruce Sterling (that I warmly recommend !)


End file.
